MERICA 

OTHKR POEMS 



!'..:, TRAND SHADWELL 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap...A_.- Copyright No. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



AMERICA 

And Other Poems 



AMERICA 

And Other Poems 



BY 
/ 



BERTRAND SHADWELL 



AMERICA 

A refuge for the oppressed. Now, God be praised, 
Here they may live at peace. By her just laws 
All men are free and equal. No more wars 

For greed of gold or land. No standard raised, 

Driving armed hordes, by bloody fever crazed, 
To deeds which, calm and sane, the mind abhors 
Sending their souls, in an unrighteous cause, 

Naked before God's judgment seat, amazed. 

Such was this country; but, within the hour. 
False creed of conquest luring her to ill, 

She is become an armed, imperial power, 
Crushing a weaker people to her will. 

I,et freedom's banner then to earth be hurled 

And raise the despot's flag of the grim old world. 



CHICAGO 

R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS CO. 

1899 



TWO COPIES R EC 5:1 V ED, 

Library of Co8gro«% 

QfUoQ of tli6 

APR 4 -1900 

Biejjlstir of CopyrigMt«i 

COPYRIGHT 1899, BY 
BERTRAND SHADWELL 






56?74 



SECOND COPY, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

America Title Page 

In the Museum: 

The Venus of Melos 3 

Psyche 4 

Nike 4 

Bas Relief 5 

An Old Friend 6 

The Fighting Gladiator 6 

Sonnets : 

Rewards and Punishments 9 

England to Marchand 9 

Liberty 10 

The Artist 11 

Sonnet Written on Good Friday, 1898 11 

The Spanish Galleon 12 

Spain's Reward 12 

Dead Foemen ' 13 

A Lesson from History 13 

Miscellaneous Poems: 

Spain 17 

The Maine Disaster 18 

Kipling's Recessional Misapplied 19 

Glory 20 

To the Victor the Spoils 20 

The Flood 21 

War's Parentage 22 

War 22 

Prayer Before Battle 23 

Argument in Favor of War 23 

As Hobson Told It 24 

Cervera 24 

Victory 26 

Peace (August, 1898) 27 

vii 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Miscellaneous Poems {Contmued): 

The Last Crusade 28 

Europe in Asia and Africa 29 

The Black Man's Burden 30 

Dum Dum ". 32 

Christianity Triumphs 33 

Democracy, Bound, but Unconquered 33 

Christiani ad Leones 34 

The Burden of Blood 35 

The Peace of Europe 37 

November 3, 1896 38 

In Exile 39 

Every-Day Heroes 40 

The Secret 41 

Evening 42 

Only a Castle in the Air 42 

The Holy Innocents 43 

The Vision of Evil 44 

The Circle 44 

Charity 45 

The Voice 45 

A Roman Captive 46 

A Stray Dog 52 

Prayer of the Wounded Dervish 53 

The Dreyfus Case 54 

On Devil's Island 55 

Old Age 56 

Greece 56 

Salamis 57 

England and the Transvaal 58 

Courage 59 

To the Native Soldiers in India 59 

Duty 60 

There's Something in the English After All 61 

Socrates 64 



IN THE MUSEUM 



In the Museum 

THE VENUS OF MELOS 

GODDESS of Melos, I could worship still, 
As Greeks of old have done before thy shrine, 
Thy white, majestic purity divine, 
The gracious, sweet serenity of face. 
The womanhood, the loveliness, the grace. 
O, soul-filled stone from the Pentelic hill ! 
Goddess of Melos! I could worship still. 

What hath he sought to teach, the inspired Greek 
Who wrought those glorious limbs, that calm, smooth 

cheek ; 
Made the magnificent, firm neck to bow, 
And placed eternal youth upon the brow ; 
Carved on the perfect head the rippling hair 
And shaped the splendid, curving bosoms fair; 
There is no lie, no shame of nature there. 

No vicious stamp of a corrupted age, 
No crooked lesson from a monkish page. 
Tis Venus, Venus, seen as in a glass. 
As kind as summer showers upon the grass. 
As sweet as airs where sun-steep'd roses mass — 
Nature's eternal soul — with each new breath 
Of still-returning life, defying death. 

3 



PSYCHE 

AND here's a man who, on my hfe, has dared 
To put the soul in marble — what a task ! — 
And chosen for the symbol a young girl, 
At that sweet age when woman's just matured 
And yet keeps childhood's happy innocence. 
Half draped and half revealed, with calm, pure face, 
Gentle and modest, looking down to earth, 
She seems to say, "I bend toward earthly things, 
Being of heaven." 

And, sure, his soul was pure. 
Noble and good, who, from a block of stone. 
Could fashion such a picture of the soul. 



L 



NIKE 

(the winged victory of samothrake) 
OVELY, triumphant, grandly brave. 



Wet with the spray from the plunging wave, 
She stands on the prow in the rushing wind, 
Swept on by the dash of the oars behind ; 
Her garments cling to her giant form. 
And her mighty pinions beat the storm. 

Poor little stone-chippers toiling to-day. 

How shall we speak of her? What shall we say? 

White marble miracle, standing alone. 

Once and forever enchanted to stone. 

The triumph of sculpture, the glory of Greece, 

Of all generations the masterpiece. 



BAS RELIEFS 

AMONG them I admire in chief 
Three figures carved in high reHef, 
Three pagan revelers, intent 
On happy, wild abandonment: 
A Bacchic chorus, I should say, 
Marching along its joyous way. 

Two graceful youths, a woman fair, 
With back-tossed head and flying hair, 
Striking upon a tambourine; 
And, pacing by their side, is seen 
A merry panther, keeping time. 
And marching to the music's rhyme. 

I gaze, until I see unfurl'd 
All the free, happy, pagan world; 
The graceful joys, the sun, the mirth, 
The pleasures gods have sent the earth : 
The marble figures seem to sing, 
The stricken tambourine to ring. 
The great cat frolics on its way 
And raises its wild paw in play. 

And, as I pass along the street. 
Oh, still I hear the music sweet. 
And still I see the figures fair. 
The woman with the flying hair. 
And, marching to the music's rhyme, 
The joyous panther, keeping time. 
5 



AN OLD FRIEND 

AH — the Farnese Hercules — 
The mighty arms, the massive chest 
And hill-Hke muscles of his bieast, 
Swoirn with the long and fearful strain 
Of holding up the earth and main. 

The sunlight, slanting through the pane, 
Makes the old marble new again. 

Now, what a figure of success — 
Success by long endurance bought — 
Hath the Greek sculptor's chisel wrought. 

Breathless, exhausted, almost dead. 
He hangs his bearded, virile head, 
His face by long, fierce suffering lined, 
Borne with a firm, heroic mind. 

The crushing burden gone, at last, 
He graps the Hesperian apples fast. 

THE FIGHTING GLADIATOR 

THIS is no hired assassin of the ring. 
No slave condemned to fight, no venal thing 
Who craves the wretched guerdon to be won. 
But one of those who strove at Marathon. 

Look at the muscles tense, the nostrils wide, 
The glorious poise, magnificence of stride; 
A moment, and his foe rolls in the dust — 
No mortal can withstand the assault — he must. 
6 



SONNETS 



Sonnets 

REWARDS AND PUNISHMENTS 

STILL, the belief I hold is fixed and strong, 
That evil deeds bring instant punishment, 
And good deeds swift reward, although a long 

Success to wicked plottings may be lent. 
For man is like a player at the board 

Of some great organ ; if he strike the notes 
Which harmonize, a pure and gracious chord 
Down the dim, vast cathedral arches floats; 
But, if the notes be false, the sweet sounds cease, 
And discord jars the ear, and mars the prayers 
That into troubled hearts were bringing peace. 
And healing with their balm all human cares. 
So does each deed a hellish discord roll. 
Or chord of heavenly sweetness, through man's 
soul. 



ENGLAND TO MARCHAND 

OUR foeman — but we like you none the less. 
For we love daring ever. You have won 
Our praise, and not our hate, by what you've done. 
With resolution, courage and address, 
In spite of fever, hunger and the stress 

Of savage foes unnumbered, and a sun 
That shrivels what it beats upon. Let none 
9 



ENGLAND TO MARCHAND 

Deny your right — applause for your success — 
And, though France looks upon us with an eye 

Threatening and bloody ; though the loud alarm 
Is sounding through our empire, and a cry 
From every watch tower summons us to arm, 
Ere we the awful chance of battle try, 
Accept, O son of France, tribute for bravery. 



LIBERTY 

A THING intangible, and yet so near 
To every human soul, that, through all time, 
Men of all races and of every clime 
Have forfeit all, to earn a thing so dear; 
And gentle hearts have cast off ruth and fear 

To pierce a tyrant's heart, nor deemed it crime ; 
But history's verdict names the deed sublime, 
And, from the stain of blood, proclaims it clear. 

This for the assassin ! What for him who gives 
His own life up for Liberty? We bring 

Him greater glory far than ever lives 

For warrior, statesman, artist, poet, king! 

Honor is his and reverence, when fame 

Speaks but the words, "He died in Freedom's name. 



10 



THE ARTIST 

AN angel took his palette in his hand, 
On lonely shores, where never ship passed by, 
And, seated on the brown, ribbed ocean sand, 

Painted a glorious sunset in the sky. 
In bold, swift, sweeping strokes the colors fell: 

Among the black-robed clouds a wonder blazed, 
Radiance from Heaven and scarlet fires from Hell : 

The winds forgot to move, and stood amazed, 
And, when the flaming pageant slowly paled. 

The sea was darkened, and the vapors gray. 
The colors faded, and the beauty failed, 

And all was finished with the dying day, 
He cleaned his brushes, turned his head, and smiled 

On his sole critic — a poor fisher's child. 



SONNET WRITTEN ON GOOD FRIDAY, i 

TO-DAY Christ died, to teach the world to love. 
Between two thieves uplifted to the sky. 
And ere His soul went up to God above 

Prayed for His murderers in His agony; 
To-day two nations arm to pay the debt, 

Answering by homicide our gentle Lord, 
Who said, in the garden under Olivet, 

"Who take the sword shall perish with the sword, 
And with ten thousand temples to His praise. 

After two thousand years we serve Christ thus ! 
Pause, ere the bloody flag of war ye raise, 

Lest those sad, fatal words apply to us — 
Those words He spoke before the sacrifice — 

"Ere the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice." 

11 



THE SPANISH GALLEON 

I WATCH the gorgeous flag of giant Spain 
Float at a mighty galleon's lofty peak; 
I see her drive, all glorious, o'er the main, 

And through the tempest hear her cannons speak. 
Her storied galleries o'er the billows tower ; 

The steel-clad warriors throng her stately deck — 
A fitting emblem she of that great power 

Which led the world and held its strength in check. 
She's but a phantom ! Thousand fathoms deep 

Down in the silence of the seas she lies; 
Strange sea beasts through her rotting timbers creep. 

Above her grave the lonely seabird cries. 
And what was Spain ? And what is she to-day ? 
Alas ! that aught that's noble should decay. 



SPAIN'S REWARD 

IF Spain must fall, struck by so fell a blow 
If that "New World," linked ever with her past. 
Should thus inflict her ruin at the last — 

Her greatest glory bringing overthrow — 

If, 'gainst belief in justice, this is so. 

Resolve shall quail and valor be aghast: 
Who then shall care to make the daring cast. 

With life and fame and fortune on the throw? 

But, no ! Adventure, courage, never fail ; 

Though gallant deeds may seem achieved in vain, 
Ever their glorious precedents remain; 

And, though Spain perish 'neath war's iron hail. 
And, though her blazing cities light the sky. 
Up, like a phoenix, from their smoke, she'll fly. 
12 



DEAD FOEMEN 

TRUE men will honor courage in a foe ; 
And, when a hostile ship, all wrapped in flame, 
Yet fighting and defiant, sinks below, 

Earning in her last hours immortal fame, 
From every honest lip should come a cheer, 

Not for the victory won, but for the men 
Who set their country's honor above fear; 

Their death should force us to respect them then. 
Alas ! too oft the opposite obtains, 

And, after we have struck our foeman down. 
And while our brothers' blood our weapon stains. 

We strive our dark regrets in hate to drown ; 
This is the deepest hell in human hate, 

To hate the men whom we annihilate. 



A LESSON FROM HISTORY 

WHEN France was smitten through her eagle crest 
The victor stood above her, lying low, 
And, with an armed heel upon her breast, 

Tore land and treasure from the vanquished foe ; 
And Germany now groans beneath her arms. 

The sword is never absent from her side, 
She sleeps in steel, and dreams of night alarms, 

And battles roaring on her frontiers wide. 
Ah ! force not then a conquered race too far ; 

Tarnish not victory with plunder's stain; 
Leave not your land an endless threat of war ; 

A menace to your children still, in Spain — 
Arming, conspiring^ brooding on the past. 

And — all prepared — striking in hate at last. 

13 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



15 



Miscellaneous Poems 

SPAIN 

IN days when men most worship gain, 
And ignorance contemns the past, 
The red and golden flag of Spain 
I see with reverence to the last. 

The land the thoughtless view with scorn, 
As barren both of power and gold, 

A race of warriors has borne 
And gallant gentlemen of old. 

In wealth, in arts, in courtesy, 
In daring and adventurous men, 

The blazoned page of history see, 

And pause to think what Spain was then. 

How first her caravels set sail 

Through the storm's bufifetings, nor furled 
Their canvas, till the watch's hail 

Told of a new-discovered world. 

How Cortez burned his ships and th^n, 
Resolved, through danger, hunger, pain. 

Led on his little band of men 
And won an empire for Spain. 
17 



SPAIN 

And how Pizarro, from afar, 

Beyond the distant tropic glow, 

Beyond the dim, yellow ocean bar, 
Saw the Pacific sleep below. 

Stories that wake the adventurous heart, 
And stir the generous blood again: 

Turn from the factory and the mart 
To realize that such was Spain! 

Once first, where fame and honor's won. 
With painter's brush, with sword, with pen 

And, though their ancient power is gone, 
Know that they still are gentlemen. 

They're brave and courteous to the last ; 

Their name was great, their empire wide ; 
Then, thinking on their glorious past. 

Learn to respect a people's pride ! 



THE MAINE DISASTER 

(to the dead.) 

BLASTED into eternity 
In the darkness of the night. 
They have not died on the open sea, 

In the hurry and stress of fight; 
But they laid them quietly down to sleep, 

And to waken in peace again. 
And the air was shocked by a thunder deep, 
And was red with a fiery stain. 
18 



THE MAINE DISASTER 

And their sleep was changed to the sleep of death, 

In the darkness of the night: 
They never shall feel the morn's sweet breath, 

Or shall see the blessed light. 
When the eastern sky is in glory dressed, 

And the morning bugle's call. 

******* 

Cross the hands on each quiet breast: 
Settle the funeral pall. 



KIPLING'S RECESSIONAL MISAPPLIED 

LOOKING on England's mighty power, 
And fearing, in temptation's hour, 
That, in her strength, and in her pride. 
She might put faith in God aside — 
A poet wrote, "Be with us yet, 
Lest we forget, lest we forget." 

Our jingoes borrow this refrain 
In writing of the sunken Maine ; 
And, preaching from her unknown fate* 
A doctrine of unreasoning hate, 
Shriek to their fetish made of mud, 
"O, give us blood ! O, give us blood !" 

* [The American Board of inquiry especially stated that the 
authors of the explosion were unknown. The explosion may 
have been caused by the insurgents. 

19 



GLORY 

I STOOD upon a mighty plain by night, 
The white-faced moon showed its fantastic light, 
And with a steady tramp, across the plain. 
Moved all the men were e'er in battle slain. 

Rank behind rank, their weapons in their hands, 
From long past centuries and far-off lands. 
The firm earth shook and thundered 'neath their tread — 
A shoreless never-ending stream of dead. 

Their eyes were glazed, their deadly wounds agape, 
From sword and lance's stab and tearing grape. 
And shattering musket ball and smashing shell, 
And all the implements designed in hell. 

A ghastly spectacle — and each was dyed 
In the dark blood of murder, and they cried 
With a great voice to heaven, "Forgive, O Ljord ! 
We took the sword, and perish with the sword." 



TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS 

THROUGH a mighty city, gallant and gay, 
"On to glory!" the bugles play; 
For an army is passing down the street 
With an endless tramp of thunderous feet. 

Beating the earth with a measured time 
To the martial music's shrilling rhyme. 
With shrieking fife, and with throbbing drum, 
And with clatter of arms, "They come, they come!" 

20 



TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS 

In manhood's strength and in pride of Hfe 
They laugh as they think of the coming strife; 
For the madness of war is in the air 
And throbs in the heartbeats. "Vive la guerre!" 

On a battlefield, in the silent night, 
A lean, crook'd moon sheds a ghostly light 
Where the slain He grouped, as the bursting shell 
Has hurled them prone with its breath from hell. 

And the cursed machine guns' blasting sweep 
Is shown in many a bleeding heap, 
And the track of the shrapnel and the grape 
By the ghastly dead with their wounds agape. 

Torn and mangled, bloody and grim. 

With wide, white eyes in the moonlight dim 

And with wide, white lips that, with never a breath, 

Speak, not of glory, but of death. 

Death that is red with the murderer's stain. 
Death that is stamped with the brand of Cain, 
Death in his awful shape is there, 
And laughs as he' mutters, *'Vive la guerre." 



THE FLOOD 

THE river has burst its bounds. 
And is sweeping over the plain ; 
Its waves leap on, like maddened hounds. 
To ruin and death and pain. 

Alas ! for the waters are uncontrolled, 
Dreadful and dark and blind: 

What cares the deep for the dead that sleep. 
And the living left behind. 
21 



THE FLOOD 

The madness has reached its height 
And is spreading over the land ; 

Men call for War in his soulless might, 
With his sword in his bloody hand. 

Alas ! for mothers will weep and moan, 
When, in dreams of the night, they see 

Their slaughtered children, who lie alone 
In the depths of the awful sea. 



WAR'S PARENTAGE 

IF severed arteries and spattered brains be glory; 
If souls gone forth in homicide do well ; 
If bloody cruel deeds lend light to life's sad story 
Then War is surely not a child of Hell. 



WAR 

WHAT bloody madness doth possess mankind, 
That they, with futile sophistry, should seek 
To glorify a thing detestable. 
And make of wholesale homicide a deed 
Fit to be lauded to the very stars? 
As though a cruel murder — in itself 
The vilest, most abominable act — 
Must but be multiplied a thousand-fold 
To straight become a gift from the pure heavens', 
For which the murderer, with blood-stained hands, 
Should dare to outrage God by giving thanks, 
Thus making Him the accomplice of the crime 
And adding to the sin with blasphemy. 

22 



PRAYER BEFORE BATTLE 

GOD of the righteous, hear our prayer; 
Because thou hast made us great and strong, 
Grant us Thy hght, lest, unaware, 

We draw the sword to commit a wrong. 

Great God of Hosts, to Thee we pray, 

O, not for victory (in Thy trust 
Leave we the issue of the fray). 

But, lest our quarrel be unjust. 

We are Thy people, all our cause 

Lay we before Thy judgment seat ; 
If we have erred against Thy laws, 

Give us, not triumph, but defeat. 

ARGUMENTS IN FAVOR OF WAR 

WHERE fever does its deadly work, 
Our generous lads are gone to fight. 
"Oh, pshaw ! whatever is, is right ; 
Think of the profits made in pork." 

In that pestiferous damp and heat 
They say that men in thousands die. 
"Keep still," our speculators cry; 

"Look at the corner made in wheat." 

And widowed women, evil-starred, 
And mothers, v/eeping for their boys. 
Should cease at once their foolish noise, 

When fortunes may be made in lard. 
23 



AS HOBSON TOLD IT 

I'M sorry I couldn't do it 
I was quite chagrined, you know; 
But, you see, with our rudder blown away, 

And a gap in our plates below, 
Where the Spanish torpedo had struck her. 

And fifty holes more to the good, 
From shot and shell and machine guns, 
We had to sink where we could. 

There's nothing to make a scene about ; 

I'd rather you wouldn't cheer; 
I couldn't do anything else but go, 

When they called for a volunteer. 
Any man among you'd have done it ; 

But I'd like you to know, all the same. 
That I tried to complete my orders. 

And I really wasn't to blame. 

CERVERA. 

HAIL to thee, gallant foe! 
Well hast thou struck thy blow- 
Hopeless of victory — 
Daring unequal strife, 
Valuing more than life 
Honor and chivalry. 

Forth from the harbor's room 
Rushing to meet thy doom. 

Lit by the day's clear light. 
"Out to the waters free ! 
Out to the open sea ! 
There should a sailor fight," 
24 



CERVERA 

Where the red battle's roar 
Beats on the rocky shore, 

Thunders proclaiming 
How the great cannon's breath 
Hurls forth a dreadful death, 

Smoking and flaming. 

While her guns ring and flash. 
See each frail vessel dash, 

Though our shots rend her, 
Swift through the iron rain. 
Bearing the flag of Spain, 

Scorning surrender. 

Hemmed in twixt foe and wreck, 
Blood soaks each slippery deck, 

Still madly racing, 
Till their ships burn and reel, 
Crushed by our bolts of steel, 

Firing and chasing. 

Driven to the rocks at last. 
Now heels each shattered mast, 

Flames the blood drinking, 
Each with her load of dead. 
Wrapped in that shroud of red. 

Silenced and sinking. 

Vanquished ! but not in vain : 
Ancient renown of Spain, 

Coming upon her. 
Once again lives in thee. 
All her old chivalry, 

All her old honor. 
25 



CERVERA 

Ever her past avers, 

When wealth and lands were hers, 

Though she might love them. 
Die for their keeping, yet 
Spain, in her pride, has set 

Honor above them. 



VICTORY 

WHEN the roar of guns has ended. 
And the battle died away. 
And the smoke has blown to leeward 
From the shipping in the bay; 

When the mad delight of combat. 

With its fierce ecstatic thrill. 
Has left us dull and listless. 
With no further wish to kill; 

We can think upon our victory. 
And can meditate with pride 

On the glory of the action. 
Its heroic homicide; 

How our gallant sailors shouted 
When the foe was blown on high. 

And her men, all torn asunder. 
Fell in fragments from the sky. 

Can remember all the shrieking 
Of the Spanish wounded, when 

Every shot crashed through their vessels 
And the bodies of their men, 
26 



VICTORY 

Till ship by ship they foundered, 
With the living and the dead, 

Midst the struggles of the drowning. 
And the water streaked with red. 

And we gaze upon the waters, 
And we shudder at the stain. 

For we think of the first blood shed 
And the curse God placed on Cain. 



PEACE (AUGUST, 1898) 

("Give peace in our time, O Lord.") 

FROM battle and from murder. Lord: 
O let not murder stain our hands ! 
Though all the nations leave Thy word 
And shut their ears to Thy commands. 

May we — among them all — obey 

What Thou, throughout Thy life, hast taught, 
And put cursed homicide away, 

Nor set Thine agony at naught. 

O let us not be deaf and blind. 

Spurning the essence of our creed ; 

Make us, O Saviour of mankind, 
Christians at last in heart and deed. 

We say, we worship Thee above. 
And think that we believe Thy word. 
Thou, who hast died to teach us love. 
And, in the garden, cursed the Sword; 

Thou, who upon the cross hast bled 
That love might conquer, hatred cease : 

Then let our hands no more be red; 
Grant us, dear Lord, forever, peace. 
27 



THE LAST CRUSADE 

(dedicated to the czar of RUSSIA.) 

THIS is the holy Christmastide, 
When the Lord Christ came to be crucified; 
And all the nations, the peoples all, 
Are waiting the devil's bugle call 
To cover the earth with a funeral pall. 
Never before in this world of ill 
Were such vast multitudes trained to kill. 

And we're skillful, too, at the horrid game; 

We can boast, with never a thought of shame, 
How our best explosives, our newest guns, 
Can slaughter a thousand women's sons, 
While a tithe of the sand from the hour glass runs,* 

And tell you, with vain and foolish smiles. 

How our magazine rifle kills at miles. 



Surely 'tis time that war should cease! 

Two thousand years since the Prince of Peace 
Lived and suffered and loved and died. 
Since the blood gushed forth from His pierced side ; 
Yet we hold the faith, but His word deride. 

Kneel to Him, pray to Him, praise His name 

And — make ready for murder just the same. 

* [In the recent maneuvers in France a battery of the new 
quick-firing guns entirely destroyed a target consisting of 200 
dummy wooden soldiers placed at a distance of two and a half 
miles, in one minute and three quarters.] 

28 



THE LAST CRUSADE 

And the world must be lost to Christ indeed, 

When the men who are chosen to teach His creed 
Are so strangely politic. Scarcely one 
Calls battle and murder an evil done 
Or points to the words of God's own Son, 

Who came to the earth from His throne above 

Simply and solely to teach us love. 

Ah, Christ's anointed ! Ah, holy church ! 

Will you leave your Master thus in the lurch? 
Can none of your number yet be made 
To stand like men 'gainst the bloody trade 
And preach, like Christians, Christ's own crusade? 

Can't a few be found in your fold so wide 

To cry God's judgment on homicide? 



EUROPE IN ASIA AND AFRICA 

FOR the greed of gold and the lust of land, 
Armed to the teeth the Christians stand. 
To rob the heathen with bloody hand. 

They have every devilish tool, devised 
In the brains of the highly civilized. 
To butcher a savage foe surprised. 

The desert can tell the way they pass 

For the dead he heaped in a horrid mass. 

Where their Maxims mowed them down like grass. 

You can follow their track on the fertile plain. 
For the rivers run with a crimson stain. 
And the grass is wet with a dreadful rain. 

29 



EUROPE IN ASIA AND AFRICA 

O, their hands are thick with their brothers' blood, 
And the butchered cry from beneath the sod, 
And the cannon smoke has gone up to God. 

But, since they profess the Christian creed. 
They must palHate each atrocious deed. 
When murder has made a road for greed. 

So, to cheat their Christ, when their conscience pricks. 
With solemn, religious mien, they fix 
A hypocrite's eye on the crucifix, 

Forgetting their slaughter a little space. 

To say, with a sanctimonious face, 

'*We slay, for the love of the human race." 

THE BLACK MAN'S BURDEN 

(after RUDYARD KIPLING.) 

TAKE up the sword and rifle. 
Send forth your ships with speed. 
To join the nations' scramble 
And vie with them in greed ; 
Go find your goods a market 
Beyond the western flood. 
The heathen who withstand you 
Shall answer it in blood. 

Take up the sword and rifle, 

For so does all the world; 
There's none shall dare upbraid you 

When once your flag's unfurled. 
The race is to the swiftest. 

The battle to the strong; 
Success is the criterion. 

None cares to count the wrong. 
30 



THE BLACK MAN'S BURDEN 

Take up the sword and rifle, 

And know no fear or pause, 
What though your hands be bloody, 

Who calls ye to the laws ? 
The ports ye wish to enter. 

The roads ye wish to tread. 
Make them with heathen living, 

Mark them with heathen dead. 

Take up the sword and rifle, 

Rob every savage race, 
Annex their lands and harbors. 

For this is Christian grace. 
E'en though ye slaughter thousands, 

Ye still shall count it gain ; 
If ye extend your commerce. 

Who dreads the curse of Cain? 

Take up the sword and rifle — 

Still keeps your conscience whole — 
So soon is found an unction 

To soothe a guilty soul. 
Go with it to your Maker, 

Find what excuse ye can — 
Rob for the sake of justice, 

Kill for the love of man. 



31 



DUM DUM 

BECAUSE it can't be cruel, you know, 
To torture and cripple a savage foe, 
We've just invented a bullet fresh 
To shatter his bones and to rip his flesh. 

It's a trick of the world, as the world well knows, 

For a snob to judge a man by his clothes, 

And a civilized person's pity is small 

For a wretch who doesn't wear any at all. 

But, although he's a nigger, the beast is brave, 
So we've made him a bullet with point concave, 
Which flattens and flies into little bits 
And smashes his carcass wherever it hits. 

It would be a shocking and brutal thing 
'Gainst a civilized man such a ball to wing; 
And, besides, the foe, if he weren't a black. 
Would very probably wing it back. 

So we keep the toy as a neat surprise 
For a man armed only with assegais 
Or an old and obsolete flint-lock gun, 
So that war's not danger, but only fun. 

What! You think it is devil's fun, you say! 
And it's brutal murder thus to slay 
A race that is childish-, helpless, nude ! 
Such talk's un-Christian as well as rude. 

32 



CHRISTIANITY TRIUMPHS. 

*The insurgents opened fire on the turretship Monad- 
nock with mi^skets, kilhng one man and wounding three. 
The Monadnock then destroyed half the town (of Para- 
naque), including the church." — Daily Papers. 



O SHOCKING satire on a bloody war. 
Fought for the love of man. The bursting shell 
Makes havoc in the dwelling house of God; 
Swift from its blessed roof spring smoke and fire ; 
The walls fall inward on the place of prayer, 
Crushing the holy altar in their fall; 
The flame mounts upward to the lofty spire, 
Pointing on high to heaven's eternal peace; 
It seizes on the emblems of our faith — 
Of man's salvation — lifted to the world; 
It licks, it glows around it, triumphing. 
Down falls the cross of Christ; a breath of hell 
Has swept it from the earth ; and devils laugh. 
So little won after two thousand years. 

DEMOCRACY, BOUND BUT UNCONQUERED. 

BOUND, but unconquered, yea invincible — 
Though he be captive now to little men 
(Small venal tricksters, with their subtle tongues, 
Mean politician hucksters, to be bought 
By any trader's dollars easily;) 
Though foiled, deceived, deluded, laughed to scorn, 
Caught in a mesh by cunning, crafty minds. 
Tied fast with cords which eat into his flesh, 
And helpless now — a day will surely come 
When he shall burst in shreds his shameful bonds, 
Strike down the liars who have duped him long 
And — after centuries of wrong — be free. 

33 



CHRISTIANI AD LEONES. 
(a paradox.) 

METHINKS the pagans have a cause to hate 
The name of Christian cordially today, 
To dread us chiefly, when we kneel and pray 
To our great founder Christ, who yet, we say, 
Was meek and gentle, lowly in his state. 

Taught us to love our enemies alway. 
And that to pardon sins was truly great. 

But, since we did not wish to heed his word, 
We hid it in a rigmarole of creeds, 
Putting what we called faith instead of deeds. 
Changing his sweet commands to suit our needs. 

So that our Christian teachings now accord 

With what Christ taught, as did the noxious weeds 

Sown in the wheat. Thus prophesied our Lord. 

"Do good to them that hate you," Christ commands. 

We view such dangerous maxims with alarm ; 

O, but the church soon lulls us into calm 

Pouring upon our conscience healing balm 
And blessing us, although, with bloody hands, 

We slaughter those who never wished us harm, 
And cheat the weak of liberty and lands. 

England, France, Russia, Germany, and now — 
Last hope of good — America unite 
To rob and kill the helpless, in despite 
Of that sweet creed of pardon, love and light; 

And, while before the perfect Christ they bow 
Pray for success in deeds of Hell and night 

With sanctimonious face and lying vow. 

34 



CHRISTIANI AD LEONES 

They rob, forsooth, that justice may prevail : 
They murder, for the love they bear mankind: 
For freedom's sake, the weaker races bind 
In captive chains — thus seeking God to blind 

To massacres at which their own souls quail — 
As though their Maker had a human mind, 

As if the Eternal's punishments could fail. 

The Christian nations now oppress the world : 

'Tis they steal from the heathen, they who kill 

Pagans in holocausts ; 'tis they who fill 

The earth with wrong and make Christ's teachings nil 
For theft their homicidal flag's unfurled. 

What care they, so they glut their tradesman's till, 
That hosts, in blood, to nothingness are hurled? 

It may be, after all, that those who cried — 
In, what we call, the days of pagan night, 
"The Christians to the lions!" had some right 
And reason on their side; for such a fight 

'Twixt fierce and cruel creatures might decide 
Which be the bloodier now — the sons of light 

Or those fell beasts which range the desert wide. 



THE BURDEN OF BLOOD. 

SHOOT them down and pile them up, 
Fill the trenches full of dead. 
See the vultures come to sup. 
Deathlike, hovering overhead. 
Leave them one or two, at least; 
They deserve their nightly feast. 
35 



THE BURDEN OF BLOOD 

Slip the cartridge in your gun, 

Snick the breech-block into place, 
Holy gee, but this is fun. 

There's a man ! I see his face. 
Crack! He tumbles in the mud 
In a little stream of blood. 

That makes four I've plugged today — 

Not a botching piece of work — 
Every shot a center — say, 

This is better than New York. 
Till this civilizing war 
I had never lived before. 

What? You say your conscience calls? 

Sick of slaughter? Now, that's rot — 
Woman's nonsense — baby squalls — 
Sure you don't know what is what. 
If we kill them off, you know. 
It's because we love them so. 

Kipling is the man you need. 

Got the ''White Man's Burden," Bill? 
That's a soothing thing to read 
When you want to rob and kill. 

That will cure your conscience-smart; 
Why, I know it off by heart. 

It's to civilize their race 

That we butcher them by scores. 
Where's the whisky? Take a brace! 
Mawkish chaps like you are bores. 

Shoot them down ! It's all they're worth ! 
Civilize them off the earth. 
36 



THE BURDEN OF BLOOD 

Why, we've purchased them, you know, 

All men equal? Not at all. 
They're our property, and so 

We may kill them, great and small. 
Useful when they're dead, at least, 
For a rotting vulture feast. 

THE PEACE OF EUROPE 

ALL Europe is an armed camp; 
The echo of the sentry's tramp 
Is heard by night in every town, - 
On every height grim earthworks frown ; 
The frontiers are hedged with steel, 
Their roads are grooved with cannon wheel. 

New arms are forged with murderous skill. 
And every man is trained to kill; 
With rifle shot or cannon's breath 
To strike from far with sudden death, 
Hurling to judgment those that live. 
Usurping God's prerogative. 

And at the counter, desk and till 
Merchants and clerks are soldiers still ; 
And, like the puppets in their box 
The showman tosses there and locks, 
They shall be taken forth some day 
To act in dreadful tragedy. 

When next the battle blast is blown, 
'Twill not be army corps alone; 
Whole nations in a mass shall rise. 
And rush to bloody sacrifice, 
While from the seas their cannons roar 
To answering cannon on the shore. 
37 



THE PEACE OF EUROPE 

Peace moans and tosses in her sleep, 
And thinks she sees a shadow creep 
To plunge a dagger in her breast; 
She struggles, with the dream oppressed, 
Then starts in terror from the bed ; 
The sword has fallen from its head. 

When will it come? for come it must — 
The great and awful holocaust — 
The solemn cannon thunder loud, 
The black and heavy sulphur cloud. 
Which, like a death pall in the sky, 
Shall hang, where countless thousands die. 

The pouring of the leaden rain 
Upon the life-encumbered plain, 
The sudden lightnings, leaping wide 
To blast the armies in their pride; 
From all these millions of men, 
O, death shall reap a harvest then. 



NOVEMBER 3, 1896 

I am not thine, but free, and forever defy thee. 

— Carlyle, "Sartor Resartus." 

SATAN sat on a silver throne 
And dragged the folds of a flag to his knees, 
And counted a nation's men as his ovv^n, 
And said : "I shall win these souls with ease." 

But a mighty wind rose out of the sea; 

In its roar was the cry of a people's pride, 
And shook the victorious banner free 

From his crooked talons and flung it wide. 
38 



NOVEMBER 3, 1896 

And it gleamed like a beacon to lands afar, 
Without a stain from his sinful gripe ; 

And honesty shone in every star 

And honor was written on every stripe. 



w 



IN EXILE 
HAT shall I dream of Italy? 



A campanile, rising fair 
Above an antique city's roofs 
And soaring in the crystal air; 

Or, seen above the lemon groves, 

A white-walled village, standing high 

Upon a hill with olives gray, 

Beneath a blue and cloudless sky. 

A ruined temple on a plain. 
Lonely beside the lonely wave. 

Half its ribbed columns still erect, 
Holding the broken architrave. 

An old cathedral's rich facade. 
Where dim mosaics faintly glow; 

Dark, narrow ways, where palace walls 
Echo the boatman's cry below. 

The golden orange, flaming bright 
Among the cool green of the leaves ; 

The arabesque the curling vine 
Upon the broken trellis weaves. 

The wild campagnia, wide and free ; 

The sun-steep'd pine tree, dark and tall ; 
A castle in a sapphire sea — 

O Italy, I love you all. 
39 



EVERY-DAY HEROES 

I'LL sing you a song with a full, deep breath — 
For my blood runs fast by its artery walls — 
Of strong men, brave in the presence of death, 
And quick and quiet when duty calls. 

Of a foot that is firm on the brink of the pit, 
Of a hand with a grip that can never tire, 

Of a will that's as strong as a Spanish bit, 
And a heart that's been tried by fire. 

I honor the men who have fought and died 

For the sake of the land which they loved, but still, 

Alas! for the courage of homicide, 

Condemned by God's edict, 'Thou shalt not kill." 

But the men who jump at the ring of the bell 
And harness the horses, strong and fleet, 

Each strap in its place and buckled well. 
And in fifteen seconds are in the street ; 

Who climb through the smoke and the fire's fierce roar. 
Though the blazing roof may come crashing through — 

Those are the men that I honor more, 
For they are both brave and human, too. 

And when I read how one more has tried 

To save a life, and has paid the price 
Which our Lord paid once, and has nobly died. 

And has climbed on his ladder to Paradise ; 

And I know that his comrades had done the same 
Had they been where he was — my pulses thrill, 

And I humbly say, 'T am much to blame, 
In this sordid world there are heroes still." 

40 



THE SECRET 

1SAID to Death, as we sat alone, 
Side by side, on an old grave stone — 
Its words effaced by a century's rain, 
Moss and lichen and weather stain — 
In the old church yard, 'neath the antique yew, 
Dark, dark, with the sunset looking through : 

I said to Death, '*Is it ease or pain, 
Eternal loss, or eternal gain. 
The peace of God, which thou hast in store, 
Or just black nothingness, nothing more? 
Thy face is hid in thy long black hair; 
Behind its darkness what is there there?" 

Death folded him close in each raven wing. 

Turned his face to the sunset's glow, 
And sat like a lovely carven thing, 

Keeping guard o'er the dust below. 

He rested so peaceful and quiet there, 

With a gentle bend of his beautiful head, 

Clothed in the waves of its shadowy hair. 
That I touched his hand with my hand and said : 

"Death, dear Death, come, tell me here 

Of what we hope, or of what we fear ; 

Is 'to die' a bright passage to fuller life, 

Or a dreamless resting from pain and strife? 

Is the face of the loved one forever hid 

By the earth which falls on the coffin lid ? 

"Turn to me now, O, Death, and tell 
What is hid 'neath the fables of heaven and hell? 
We sit alone, 'neath the old yew tree ; 
It shall never be known but to me and thee; 
If thou lovest me, let me thy visage see." 
Death turned him round and said, "Come with me!' 

41 



EVENING 

LAST night the air was pure and sweet, 
And all the world seemed sweet to me ; 
The meadow grass about my feet 
Clung, rich with clover, to my knee. 

I watched the sky of loving blue 

With sunset glow, with twilight pale, 

And saw the mist which brings the dew 
Creep from the pine woods up the vale. 

And through the sleeping fields it stole 
Like peace into a quiet soul. 

ONLY A CASTLE IN THE AIR 

ONLY a castle in the air 
Built high above the careless crowds 
Its snow-white ramparts shining fair 
Among the clouds, among the clouds. 

Its walls and towers rise pile on pile. 
Its golden pinnacles flash bright, 

Its silken banners, for a while, 
Fly glorious in the morning's light. 

Only a loved — forsaken — truth 
Only a generous, noble thought 

A pure and chivalrous dream of youth, 
Half way to earth from heaven brought. 

Our best resolves are broken deeds : 
Some fault each highest effort mars; 

Yet, to have striven, our spirit leads 
A little nearer to the stars. 
42 



THE HOLY INNOCENTS 

THE Innocents came to the Gates of Gold, 
And the Christ-child opened and let them in. 
"Consider the lilies, how they grow; 
They toil not, neither do they spin." 

And they passed into peace through the Gates of Gold, 

Leaving for ever this world of sin. 
Oh, look at the lilies, how white they glow ! 

''They toil not, neither do they spin." 

And the daisies shine in the heavenly light. 
Like little clean souls, and the golden rod 

Raises in rapture its blossoms bright, 

And the buttercups look in the face of God. 

And the roses, yellow and cream and red, 

Offer for ever their incense sweet. 
And the sunflowers worship with upturned head, 

And the hyacinths bend at the Father's feet. 

For the flowers all stand at the Gates of Gold, 

Just as they are in this world of sin, 
Just as they grow in the garden mold. 

Because God has opened and let them in. 



43 



THE VISION OF EVIL 

UPON a mighty crag I stopped to rest: 
The sun was slowly sinking towards the west 
When, turning eastward from its blinding glare, 
I saw an evil creature in the air. 
A dark and awful being of giant size, 
Towering, he hung suspended in the skies — 
Spirit of wickedness and horrid fate, 
A king to dominate the world by hate — 
O'er the defenceless land, with threatening stare. 
He raised his dreadful hand to say, "Despair !" 

"Fear not, my friend," in gentle accents cried 

A mild and glorious presence at my side ; 

And, clear and bright, in heavenly beauty stood, 

In Charity's blue robe, eternal Good. 

"I am the substance, and that figure black. 

Which stands, so fearful, 'gainst the vaporous rack. 

And seems to rule the earth, with gesture proud 

And fierce, is but my shadow on a cloud. 



THE CIRCLE. 

AROUND the blazing sun we swing. 
And winters freeze and summers burn : 
Earth, spinning in its endless ring. 

Makes day and night come each in turn; 

^And all things in their circles move. 
And this is mighty Nature's way, 
Ever returning in its groove. 

Death wakes to life, night yields to day. 
44 



THE CIRCLE 

And other lives their turns await, 

When we are — psychic force and dust? 

And good and bad still alternate, 
And nothing ends : return it must. 

And so, I think, our hope is plain, 

That — even if we doubt the soul — 
The self-same atoms, once again, 

Shall rush together as a whole. 

CHARITY. 

A SWORD that is strong and trenchant, 
A shield with a mighty curve, 
To guard the wronged and defenceless, 

A balance that cannot swerve, 
A heart by no foolish pity moved, 

An eye that sees no disparity, 
And an arm that smites like the thunderbolt. 
JUSTICE is Charity. 

THE VOICE 

UPON a night, when visible blackness lay 
O'er earth and sky and hid the dangerous way, 
The moon gone down, the heavens without a spark, 
I heard a friend's voice calling through the dark. 

What was the thing it meant, I cannot tell ; 
Only, I seemed to know that all was well ; 
And, ever since that night of darkness black, 
Each day I hear the voice, and answer back. 

It surely is my soul that speaks alone 
In its own language, to the mind unknown. 
With something which pervades eternal space, 
And holds the universe in its embrace. 

45 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

MORITURI te salutant," 
Hear the gladiators cry, 
In the fierce Italian sunlight, 

Shield and weapon flashing high. 

'Those about to die salute thee." 
Voices rising, like the roar 
Of a mighty ocean billow 
Breaking on a rocky shore. 

On the sands of the arena, 

Lighted by the noonday glow, 
Streaming through the purple awning, 

Armed, they stand — a splendid show- 
Limbs with thews of living iron. 

Faces handsome bronzed and bold ; 
Every man a finished statue. 

Cast in a heroic mold. 

Trained to combat, till his weapon 

Is alive within his grasp, 
Active as the forest leopard. 

Swifter than the striking asp. 

Now the line becomes a colmun. 

And, with measured tread, the band 

Marches from the arena, leaving 
Two men facing on the sand. 

One, in fillet and in tunic. 
Like a runner, Hghtly dressed. 

Grasping in his hand a trident. 
Threatens his opponent's breast. 
46 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

Thus he holds him at a distance, 
Feinting, every now and then. 

Like a fisher, to cast o'er him 
Net of steel for catching men. 

His opposer, a barbarian, 

Sent by Caesar here to Rome, 

With a string of other captives. 
From his savage northern home. 

A fantastic helmet hiding 

Head and neck, with heavy greaves, 
Buckled for the legs' protection. 

Which the shield unsheltered leaves. 

With his sword on guard before him. 
Moving stealthily and slow. 

Crouching like a cat ere springing, 
Keeps advancing on his foe . 

Round and round about they circle, 
All alert, hand, foot, and eye. 

Each one watching for an opening, 
Life and death are waiting by. 

Spreading wide its steely meshes. 
Quick and true the net is thrown ; 

Swifter leaps the active savage. 
And it circles air alone. 

Now the swordsman hunts the fisher. 
And the fisher, fleeing fast, 

Gathers up his net in running. 
Hoping for a truer cast. 
47 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

But the wild, strong feet behind him, 
Though the hounds might pant and lag, 

Hunting in their northern forest. 
Oft have wearied out the stag. 

Spite of heavy greaves impeding 

Helmet's weight and massive height, 

Who can match the savage hunter, 
Running with the game in sight? 

Now *'retiarius" turn and double; 

Just as well the reeling mast. 
Driving o'er the raging ocean, 

Might out-speed the tempest's blast. 

Suddenly the swift sword flashes, 

And descends strong, quick, and true, 

Strikes the flyer on the shoulder. 
Cuts the deltoid muscle through. 

Hits the bone with such a shock, 
That, with a noise of rattling steel, 

Man and net and trident turning, 
Whirling, to the barriers reel. 

There he crouches, wounded, helpless, 
Staining red the yellow sand, 

Making to the cruel commons 
Plea for mercy with his hand. 

Mercy from the Roman plebs? 

Compassion from the people's will? 
Now the whole arena echoes 

With a long, wild cry of— "Kill!" 

48 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

Craven cowards, fed on bounty, 

Not a soldier in the brood, 
All that's left of ancient valor 

Is their tiger's lust for blood. 

Like a statue stands the savage; 

From his sword no death-stroke comes, 
To obey the vile decision 

Of the downward pointing thumbs. 

But he cries, in broken Latin, 
*'Let the Roman rabble know 

'Tis the custom of my people 
Not to strike a fallen foe. 

"But, if wounds do not prevent him. 

To await, until he stand 
Firm again on the defensive. 

With his weapon in his hand ; 

"And, to slay a man disabled. 
Lying bleeding on the ground. 

Would disgrace our meanest warrior, 
Branding him a craven hound." 

For a moment there is silence; 

Then there comes a muttering roar, 
First of all like distant thunder. 

When the rains of autumn pour ; 

Then all Rome stands up and rages. 

Till the bestial voices chime 
Like the cry of the carnivora 

From their dens at feeding time. 
49 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

Now in swarms they scale the barriers, 
And within the arena stand, 

Crowding on the tall barbarian, 
Who awaits them, sword in hand, 

With his back against the massive 
Timbers of the entrance gate. 

And the sharp point of his weapon 
Steady, threatening, and straight. 

Calm and watchful he awaits them. 
And the many headed crowd 

Hangs back, Hke a cry of mongrels 
Round a gray wolf, yelling loud. 

Anthony, the friend of Caesar, 
Headstrong, generous, and gay. 

Was director of the combats 
In his absence on that day. 

Somewhat given to wine and women, 
Still a soldier, seasoned hard. 

Best and bravest in the armies 
Which the immortal city guard. 

Quickly turns he to his henchman, 
Enobarbus, standing by, 
*'Save me yonder savage fellow: 
By the gods, he shall not die! 

"Rome has need of such, I tell you. 
Since she breeds us men no more ; 
He shall lead my foreign legion. 
Help to guard our eastern door." 
50 



A ROMAN CAPTIVE 

Straight a hundred steel-clad soldiers, 
Helmets gleaming in the sun, 

Enter by the farther gate 
And cross the arena at the run. 

Moving with unique precision, 

Every spear head in a line, 
Each man's shoulder to his fellows 

With a touch exact and fine. 

— Pick of many a Roman province, 
Pride of many a ravaged home, 

Pearl of many a savage mother, 
Not a single man from Rome — 

And the Roman plebs run howling, 
Scattering before the troops. 

As the rats from the Cloaca 

Scamper when the night-owl swoops. 

Thus, they scramble o'er the barriers ; 

Not a frightened vv^retch remains ; 
So the rats from the Cloaca — 

Seized with panic — seek their drains. 

Then the ponderous gate swings open. 
Closing with a thunder sound ; 

Empty stands the wide arena 
With the blood upon the ground. 

All is ended — and the savage? 

O, his bones unburied lie 
On the burning sands of Egypt ; 

There he died for Anthony. 
51 



A STRAY DOG 

AMASTERLESS dog stands in the street, 
And shrinks in the icy blast, 
As the pitiless night is closing in, 
And the snow goes drifting past. 

He looks in your eyes for a kindly glance 
And speaks as you pass the place. 

With a humble wag of a drooping tail. 
And a sad, beseeching face. 

He comes to your heels at a gentle word, 

And follows you mile by mile — 
Patient, persistent, full of hopes — 

And pleads to you all the while. 

"Only take me and own me : 
I starve in this cruel town." 
Watching your face with anxious eyes, 
He follows you up and down. 

"Only take me and own me: 
For food and a place to lie, 
I'll love you as only a dog can love, 
And be true to you till I die. 

"You may spurn me, abuse me, strike me, 
And I'll trust you just the same. 
For I'll lick your hand and forgive at once, 
With never a thought of blame. 

"Only take me and own me, 

And I'll follow you to the end 
With a faith that passes all human faith — 
For a dog is the truest friend." 
52 



PRAYER OF THE WOUNDED DERVISH 

("To understand everything is to forgive everything.") 

GOD, hear my prayer 
For the desert air, 

And the weight of a sword in my hand. 

And the deep long bass of the galloping hoofs, 
Striking chords on the quivering sand. 

In my fevered sleep, 
I can hear their sweep, 

It is music's lowest note ; 

It goes thundering by. 
With a wild, shrill cry 

From each black-bearded throat. 

God, grant me the sight 
Of the turbans white, 

And the faces brown and brave. 

And the sun's fierce flash from the lance's heads 
When the prophet's standards wave, 

And the scabbard clanks 
On the plunging flanks. 

And the wild manes toss on high, 

And the infidel's steel 
Doth stagger and reel : 

Let me charge once more — for my God — and die. 
53 



THE DREYFUS CASE 

AND is wrong safer, then, for France than right? 
And are Ues more expedient than truth? 
Dare she now turn her back upon the Hght 
And stride away into the trackless night, 

Leaving behind her conscience, justice, ruth? 

When countless German hosts her frontiers crossed, 

And broke her regiments and bent her will, 
And breathless France was left to count the cost, 
Blood, treasure, lands, and all but honor lost, 
We sorrowed with her, reverenced her still. 

Will France now part forever from her past? 

Shall her great dead in vain their voices send 
Down the long centuries, like a bugle blast 
Heard from afar in battle, when men cast 

Away base fear and die ? * * * Is this the end ? 

Never ! For justice will not be suppressed ; 

Immortal Truth, though smitten deep, shall rise. 
Above her foes shall rear her shining crest. 
And, striking fear to every guilty breast. 

Shall stand alone beneath the eternal skies. 



Ill i - "' |THE DREYFUS CASE 

AWAKE, awake, France, from the deep 
And guardless slumbers of the night! 
Still footsteps to your chamber creep. 
And coward hands that murder sleep. 
But shrink in fear before the light. 
54 



THE DREYFUS CASE 

False visions whispering at your ear — 
The lying dreams that shun the day — 
Before the dawning sharp and clear 
Shall vanish in their formless fear, 
And, in the sunshine, melt away. 

Up from your slumbers, undismayed ! 

The traitors by your portals stand: 
Arms ever for your hands were made — 
The scabbard and the shining blade — 

Strike, then, the foes within your land. 

Tear off the veil from naked fact : 
The army, that you set so high. 
Must be of honest men compact — 
Soldiers unstained in heart and act — 
You cannot conquer with a lie. 



ON DEVIL'S ISLAND 

CAST out of France like a tainted thing, 
Thrust in a den like a beast of prey. 
Loaded with insults that soil and sting. 
Why should I suffer the light of day? 

Heart that is broken with grief of shame. 
Soul that is bitter with sense of wrong ; 

Why should I linger to bear the blame? 
Hope is dead — I have waited long. 

Why should I ponder and weep and rage. 
Eat out my heart, when I have a friend ? 

Death will not shrink from this shameful cage ; 
Only to call him and then — the end. 
55 



ON DEVIL'S ISLAND 

Curse them ! Never ! I shall not quail ; 
What is a lifetime ? It's but a span. 
"Great is truth, and it shall prevail;" 
Suicide is for the guilty man. 



OLD AGE 

HAT though the sun be stooping toward the west, 
The evening is the time of peace and rest. 
To-morrow's sun may bring a happier day; 
And with the night comes sleep — and sleep is bless 'd. 



w 



GREECE 

OLD songs of shining southern lands, 
Of Argo and the golden fleece. 
Of hollow ships and yellow sands, 
And long oars, tugg'd by heroes' hands, 
Rise in our minds at thought of Greece. 

We see the column's stately row 
Before the temple on the height; 

We hear the solemn music's flow 

Rise from the theater below, 

Ring'd with the marble benches white. 

And, yet again, we think of thee ; 

And lo ! a small, devoted band. 
Between a great rock and the sea. 
To keep the Grecian people free, 

Making its hopeless, deathless stand. 
56 



GREECE 

And, when the dreadful fight is o'er, 
The unequal battle lost and won, 

No Greek is living on the shore; 

Their homes shall welcome them no more; 
They died in arms. The sea moans on. 

Ah, people, wonderful in peace! 

Once more, make living marble glow ; 
The treasures of the world increase ; 
Strive to revive the art of Greece, 

And let the Pyrrhic phalanx go. 

SALAMIS 
(Themistocles Harangues the Greeks.) 

SAILORS of Hellas and warriors ! See the fell Per- 
sian before you. 
Mighty his ships are and numerous, swift with their 

three banks of rowers. 
And their great sails are uplifted by hundreds; they 
throng the horizon. 

Though ye be few, be not timorous ; know that the gods 
are among you ; 

Theseus is with you and Hercules, and the great god- 
dess Athene; 

Nike alights on your galley prows, folding her pinions 
victorious. 

Pull on the braces with vigor, and swing the long yards 

to the north wind ; 
Let your ships rush through the billows, and turn their 

bronze beaks on the foemen. 
Striking them down like hawks that swoop on a covey of 

partridge. 

57 



SALAMIS 

Fit your long shafts to the bow strings, and see that your 

spears are beside you ; 
Now is the hour, it has struck, when the fate of your 

land is decided. 
Ho ! Is it blood on the waters, or is it the fires of the 

sunrise ? 



ENGLAND AND THE TRANSVAAL 

PAUSE and think, England. England, pause and 
think. 
Let no mad outcry force you to the fight. 
Stop, while you can, upon the fatal brink. 

Think upon ruth and conscience ; think on right. 

Use not your mighty strength in cause unjust ; 

Crush not a nation's life beneath your heel — 
Lest the bright armor of your honor rust, 

And stains of wrong deface its burnished steel. 

Sheathe the sword, England. England, sheathe the 
sword. 

Think on your own fierce struggles to be free, 
Which roll'd a king's head on the scafifold board 

And drove another king beyond the sea. 

Found not a giant empire upon wrong, 

Or by the God of justice over all. 
Who giveth not the battle to the strong, 

Nor peace to the oppressor — it shall fall. 

58 



COURAGE. 

CALM courage can erase the blot from shame 
And grave on honor's shield the meanest name ; 
Can stay an army's thunderous tread alone, 
Exalt a slave unto an emperor's throne, 
Comfort the damned wretch behind his bars 
Or lift the martyr'd soul above the stars. 

TO THE NATIVE SOLDIERS IN INDIA 

(August, 1897.) 

In limbering up a wheel the mule was shot, but Havil- 
dar Amardin ran back under fire and picked up both 
wheels, seventy-two pounds each, and started to rejoin 
the battery. He was shot dead and the wheels were not 
recovered. Cruickshank's orderly picked up a gun 
weighing 200 pounds single-handed and carried it to the 
gun mule. Then he went back and brought in Lieuten- 
ant Cruickshank's body. — Morning Paper. 

OH, men v/ho draw the English pay 
And wear the English uniform. 
Beyond the dawning of the day, 

'Neath sunburnt skins your blood runs warm. 

Sikhs and Pathans, we see you mass ; 

We see your polished bayonets shine; 
We hear your guns ring up the pass, 

Sipahis of the British line. 

The noise of battle in the hills 

Across the world has reached us here. 

Where death in rattling volleys kills. 

We're proud to know you know not fear. 
59 



DUTY 

[To the memory of Lieutenant Mclntyre and twelve 
men of the Northamptonshire Regiment who met death 
while endeavoring to save the wounded of the regiment 
during the retreat from the Saran-Sar Mountain in 
northern India in November, 1897.] 

JUST a report of duty done, 
Of men who shielded their helpless friends 
From the hillman's knife and his ambushed gun 
Till the fight was finished and rest was won 
In a death which all amends. 

Only a dozen Northampton men, 

Led by a beardless ''sub ;" 
But they faced the tribes in that mountain glen, 
Like a lioness roaring in her den, 

As she licks her wounded cub. 

And many a dear old dame will cry, 

In her cottage facing an English lane, 
''Never, never to say good-by" — 
Ah ! but they taught us the way to die — 
They have not died in vain. 



60 



THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE ENGLISH 
AFTER ALL 

I 

I'VE been meditating lately that, when everything is 
told, 
There's something in the English after all: 
They may be too bent on conquest and too greedy after 
gold, 
But there's something in the English after all ; 
Though their sins and faults are many (and I won't ex- 
haust my breath 
By endeavoring to tell you of them all), 
Yet they have a sense of duty, and they'll face it to the 
death ; 
So there's something in the English after all. 



II 

If you're wounded by a savage foe and bugles sound 
"retire," 
There's something in the English after all : 
You may bet your life they'll carry you beyond the zone 
of fire, 
For there's something in the English after all ; 
Yes, although their guns be empty, and their blood be 
ebbing fast. 
And to stay by wounded comrades be to fall, 
Yet they'll set their teeth like bulldogs and protect you 
to the last. 
Or they'll die, like English soldiers, after all. 

61 



THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE ENGLISH 



III 
If you're ever on a sinking ship, O, then, I KNOW 
you'll find 
That there's something in the English after all: 
There's no panic rush for safety, where the weak are left 
behind, 
(For there's something in the English after all), 
But the women and the children are the first to leave the 
wreck. 
With the crew in line, as steady as a wall, 
And the Captain is the last to stand upon the reeling 
deck; 
So there's something in the English after all. 



IV 

It was shown at Balaklava, in the face of all the world, 

There was something in the English after all. 
When, down that dreadful valley's length, six hundred 
riders hurled, 
While on the air, yet rang the bugle call. 
Not a second's hesitation, though the Russian cannons' 
breath 
Never ceased to shake the battle's dusky pall. 
"Trot: — gallop: — charge!" and, through their smoke, 
they vanished into death ; 
For you can't touck British cavalry at all. 



62 



THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE ENGLISH 



V 

It was proven at Trafalgar, even ere the fight began 

There was something in the Enghsh after all; 
When, at dawn of day, from ship to ship, that simple 
message ran 

Which reaches British hearts the best of all : 
It was no dramatic summoning to honor or the grave, 

To win immortal glory or to fall. 
It was England's call to duty which was signaled o'er the 
wave. 

And that signal won the victory — after all. 



VI 

Though the half of Europe hates them, and would joy 
in their decHne, 
Yet there's something in the English after all : 
Even those who hate them most, respect the thin red 
British line, 
Yes, and fear their scant battalions after all ; 
For they know that, from the Colonel to the drummer in 
the band. 
There is not a single soldier in them all 
But would go to blind destruction, were their country to 
command, 
And just call it, simply— DUTY, after all. 



63 



SOCRATES 

(A Fragment.) 

ANOTHER roll left at my door which says: 
''Cease to offend those who are human still 
With thy pretended virtue, or — thou diest." 
This is the fifth found there within a month, 
Unsigned, and writ each in a different hand. 

And so, poor fools, they threaten me with death, 

Why, not since I grew beard have I feared death, 

Knowing it must inevitably come 

To all alike after a few short years ; 

So brief a space that when men pass away 

It hardly seems that they have lived at all — 

A second in the innumerable hours 

Which stretch forever toward eternity. 

Enough of this. Time passes, and I waste 
Its moments musing thus. To other things. 



64 



CALIPH 

(A True Story.) 

THAT is the horse, sir, that brought us from Clav- 
ering, 
Clear to North Crossing — hill, level and rock — 
Ninety-eight miles — without checking or wavering, 
Hoofs beating time like the tick of a clock.. 

Sweet little Mary^ the child of my brother, 

(He fell, sir, at Vicksburg, the first of the brave) 

Hated by her she'd been taught to call "mother," 
Was pining and fading away to the grave ; 

And so, when I heard how the woman was treating her — 

Poor little atom, as good as the day — 
Breaking her spirit, abusing and beating her, 

I swore on the Bible I'd fetch her away; 

And, taking the fastest young horse in my stable. 

And that, sir, was Caliph, the same that you see. 
Keeping it dark, sir, the best I was able, 
■ I hung round their farm for a fortnight, may be ; 

And, at last, after hiding and watching and waiting, 
One gloomy spring morning, I met, by God's grace. 
As I walked through the meadows, while Caliph was 
baiting, 
A poor little child, with a scar on her face. 

65 



CALIPH 

NO, SIR! It wasn't the mark of a tumble, 

But a cruel straight weal, from the blow of a whip, 

Struck with a force which would make a horse stumble, 
Cutting- the flesh from the hair to the lip. 

She'd some primroses grasped in her thin little hand, 
For all children love flowers, sir — the sweets to the 
sweet — 

I'd a lump in my throat, when I saw the child stand. 
With her torn, shabby frock, and her small naked feet. 

She was timid at first, for ill usage had cowed her. 
But I gave her some candy, and coaxed her beside, 

And ended by saying, "Her mother allowed her 
To go with her uncle and take a long ride." 

And it wasn't a lie : she was watching with gladness ; 

For, in spite of all doubtings and darkness, I'd rather 
Believe there's a place, beyond sinning and sadness. 

Where their angels behold still the face of the Father. 

In ten minutes, I had her aloft in the buggy, 

Looking grateful and pleased, with a smile on her lip, 

Bundled up in my cloak, for 'twas chilly and muggy. 
Then we flew down the road with a crack of the whip. 

There were men on the farm, and I knew they would 
follow, 
When her step-mother found I had stol'n her away. 
But I trusted to Caliph to beat 'em all hollow. 
And the gallant black horse earned his pension that 
day; 

66 



CALIPH 

For, all the day long, never stopping or staying, 
He went, swinging wide with his hoofs as he strode, 

And, for ninety-eight miles, kept us rocking and sway- 
ing 
As he fled like a hound-driven stag down the road. 

And, all the day long, as we spun o'er the track, 

I kept answering a small frightened voice, pleading 
sore, 

^'Oh ! mother will beat me. Oh ! please take me back." 
With "Please God, she shall never h^dXyou any more." 

And Caliph, all spattered with mud and with foam, 
Every time that he heard her, grew swifter in stride, 

And drove his black chest 'gainst the breast-collar home, 
With his sharp ears erect and his red nostrils wide. 

And, mile after mile, he sped over the plain. 

And, mile after mile, thundered over the stones, 

As we passed the long summit, the half frozen rain 
Came, so icy and fierce, I was chilled to the bones ; 

And still his black face fronted bravely the sleet, 

And still his black shoulders were cleaving the wind. 

And still, never ceasing, his steel-circled feet 

Were beating, like hammers, the hard road behind. 

We were hunted by horsemen, I afterwards knew. 

Through the whole of that day, and far oni into night ; 
And never a man of the cowardly crew. 

Though they spurred and they galloped, could come 
within sight. 

67 



CALIPH 

But, at evening he stumbled, and thrice almost fell. 
And the breath from his nostrils came heavy and fast. 

And the head he had held up so gallantly well 

From the dawn to the sunset, was hanging at last. 

And I knew, by the heave of his shuddering flank. 
All dank with his sweat, that the finish was nigh. 

By the quick catching wheeze, as his sides rose and 
sank. 
He might swerve any minute, and stagger, and die. 

There was blood on the foam flakes which covered his 
chest. 
When I saw a gray surface, which gleamed in the 
light 
That was fast dying out in the darkening west, 

And said, ''Courage, old man, there's the river in 
sight." 

Then he made his last effort, and swung down the slope, 
Till a light showed out clear on the river's far shore. 

We were saved : 'twas our beacon, the star of our hope ; 
And the child was my child, from that time evermore. 



That's the horse, sir. God bless him! And now you 
know why 

He goes free as the wind in the sweet meadow grass. 
And why he comes cantering up at my cry. 

For dear Mary to stroke his black face when we pass. 



68 



EGYPTIAN EMBALMER'S SONG 

WIND round, wind round, the mummy cloths wind : 
Wind them round body, wind them round Umb 
Round the tranquil head and the quiet form : 
Their web is strong and soft and warm, 
The sleep will be deep and sweet and kind, 
The rest will be bless'd to the resting* mind, 
Wind round, wind round, the mummy cloths wind, 
Round resting body and resting Hmb. 

Each entrail is sealed in its Canopic Vase : 

Through the nostrils, with probes is extracted the 
brain : 

Filled with spices, for seventy days, 

In embalming natron, the body has lain. 

Now, with bandages, smeared with clinging gums, 
Carefully wind round the sleeping face — 

With all sweet smelling and clinging gums, 
Each upon each, with an equal space — 

Pull with a steady and even hand 

(They must keep in their place till the last great day) 
With an equal strain on each linen band, 

And each fold in the same line hidden away. 

Wind round the body with equal care : 
With equal patience wind round each limb : 

Put in the packet of rich black hair, 

And the papyrus roll with its prayer and hymn. 

69 



EGYPTIAN EMBALMER'S SONG 

Bring the narrower strips, which we have in store 
For the wrist and the hand and each finger and 
thumb ; 

Now, over the whole, wind one layer more — 
One layer more, and our labour's done. 

In his mummy case, with its human face, 

Smoothed and gilded and richly dyed. 
Pictured with prayers in, every space. 

And with judgment scenes upon every side, 

He will sleep in the dark in: his rock-cut halls — 
With his sword and his dagger beside him laid — 

And the painted forms on the sculptured walls 
Through a thousand ages will scarcely fade. 

Set the food and the wine in the outermost tomb — 
When he wakes from death, he must find them there — 

With the perfumed garments, fresh from the loom, 
And the combs and the oils for anointing his hair, 

And the things which, in lifetime, he treasured the best, 
His harp, and the little gold figures of gods. 

And the rich jeweled clasp which he wore on his breast. 
And his bows and his arrows and throwing rods. 

And the presents from wife and from children and friends^ 

Offered, with tears to the silent dead. 
He can give them no thanks till his slumbering ends. 

And, when time is completed, he raises his head. 

In the knowledge that life is not severed, but stayed. 
That the dead shall arise and be ever blessed. 

With all things fit for his wakening made 

The Egyptian leaves his loved friend to rest. 



A BALLAD 

HE is coming, he is coming-, 
I can hear the music shrill 
Of his Highland pipers screaming 
Round the shoulder of the hill : 

He is coming, he is coming, 
With his troop of gallant lads, 

I can see the sunshine streaming 
On the scarlet of the plaids : 

I can hear the voices humming, 
And the tapping of the drum : 

O, my own true love is coming. 
For he said that he would come. 

He has swum the flooded rivers, 
He has climbed the rugged scaur, 

He has brought his horses by the path 
Man never rode before, 

He has passed behind the ambush, 
Where their coward bullets' hum 

Planned death, and come the only way 
They said he could not come. 

At the head of all the riders 

I can see my bonny man. 
The truest heart in all the world — 

The bravest in his clan. 
71 



A BALLAD 

So strong of body, keen of mind, 

He'll win whate'er may hap — 
A soldier, from his horse's shoes 

To the feather in his cap. 

Now, let the sentries call to arms, 

The portcullis rattle down ; 
The plaided warriors swarm beneath 

Enough to take a town : 

They have brought two long brass cannon, 

And, ere the stars do glow, 
Shall toast their leader's Lowland bride 

In the banquet hall below. 



THE MASTER'S FRIEND 

THE Master must to a distant land, 
With a foreign foe to fight, 
And the Master's wife was glad of it, 

But she hid her false delight, 
And came to him with a tearful face, 

And begged of him to stay, 
But the Master's hound was sorry, 
And it went and it hid away. 

The Master's ship from the harbor's mouth 

Beat out to the stormy sea, 
And his wife stayed late at my lady's ball — 

Rejoicing to be free — 
They said she shone like a jewel there. 

And she heard it with delight ; 
But she could not sleep for the Master's hound, 

For it howled through the live-long night. 



THE MASTER'S FRIEND 

The Master died — He was shot to death 

In that land beyond the sea — 
And they brought his body home, to he 

In a grave by the cypress tree ; 
And the Master's widow hid her face, 

And made beheve she cried; 
But the Master's hound stayed by his grave, 

Till it starved to death — 

And died. 



ON THE ROAD TO KIMBERLEY 

(Marching Song.) 

WE are marching to relieve you, 
Cecil Rhodes. 
Honor will not let us leave you, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
Seven thousand men in khaki — 
Gunners, horse and foot — but, hark ye 
Do you know the price we're paying? 

Cecil Rhodes, Cecil Rhodes? 
All the lives and all the treasure, 
Cecil Rhodes? 

Do you hear the rifles calling, 

Cecil Rhodes? 
Brave and honest men are falling, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
73 



ON THE ROAD TO KIMBERLEY 

Bursting shell and shrapnel flying, 
Strew the earth with dead and dying. 
Do you think that you are worth it, 

Cecil Rhodes, Cecil Rhodes? 
Is their blood upon your conscience, 
Cecil Rhodes? 

We have broken their defenses, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
We have swept them from the trenches, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
But at fearful cost we bought them, 
Breast to bayonet we fought them, 
They were fighting for their country, 

Cecil Rhodes, Cecil Rhodes. 
They are dying for their freedom, 
Cecil Rhodes. 

There are many graves a-making, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
There'll be smitten hearts a-breaking, 

Cecil Rhodes. 
There'll be bitter, hopeless sorrow 
In full many a home to-morrow, 
When they read the news in England, 

Cecil Rhodes, Cecil Rhodes. 
And the lists of killed and wounded, 
Cecil Rhodes. 



74 



FALSE PROPHETS 
^'DIVINE DESTINY" IN THE PHILIPPINES 

[Dedicated to a few preachers of the Christian rehgion." 
MAN of God, for very shame, 



o 



Be silent ; dare not to invoke 
In murder's cause God's holy name 
Lest thou his wrath provoke. 

Thou was't anointed, priest, to preach 
A holy creed of peace and love. 

And power was given thee, to teach 
Men to forgive, as God above. 

Thou usest it to make men worse : 
Thou helpest hell with things sublime, 

Turning God's blessing to a curse, 
And quoting Christ to bolster crime. 

By calling wholesale slaughter ''love," 

Think'st thou to blind the Omniscient's eyes, 

Dost dare to send thy prayers above 
To dupe the Almighty — the Allwise? 

Dost dare Christ's gentle words to weave 
With conquest's cruel deeds of blood; 

So hopes the savage to deceive 
His idol, made of mud. 

We laymen read our Bible too, 

And there's a text within it I 
Remember well, of such as you 

"Prophets who falsely prophesy." 
75 



FALSE PROPHETS 

Though conscience may be dulled and seared. 
Yet God will have each man repent, 

So there are judgments to be feared 
And sudden bolts of justice sent. 

Cease, thou, the Omnipotent to brave, 
Lest swift and sure his vengeance fall ; 

For it is certain as the grave 

His punishments shall come to all. 



AGUINALDO 
(PATRIOT AND EMPIRE) 

WHEN arms and numbers both have failed 
To make the hunted patriot yield, 
Nor proffered riches have prevailed 
To tempt him to forsake the field, 
By spite and baffled rage beguiled, 
Strike at his mother and his child. 

O land where freedom loved to dwell, 

Which shook'st the despot on his throne. 
And o'er the beating fioods of hell 

Hope's beacon to the world hast shown, 
How art thou fallen from thy place ! 
O thing of shame ! — O foul disgrace ! 

Thy home was built upon the height 

Above the murky clouds beneath 
In the blue heaven's freest light, 

Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath. 
The weak and the oppressed to save — 
To smite the tyrant — free the slave. 
76 



PATRIOT AND EMPIRE 

Thy place was glorious — sublime. 

What devil tempts thee to descend 
To conquest, robbery and crime? 
O shameful fate! Is this the end? 
Thy hands have now the damning stain 
Of human blood — for love of gain. 

With weak hypocrisy's thin veil, 

Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes ; 
Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail. 

Pray not — for fear the dead should rise 
From 'neath their conquered country's sod 
And cry against thee unto God. 



DAYBREAK 

["Scatter thou the people that delight in war."] 

WAR is murder ; war is hell — 
Stripped of all its tinsel sham — 
Every outrage words can tell, 

Every evil sin can cram, 
Blood and misery and flame. 
Earth's worst curse and manhood's shame. 

Trick the assassins out in lace; 

Shout for fame with all your might; 
All I see — a grinning face — 

Just a skull — a horrid sight. 
Glory, with his cruel eyes, 
Is but murder in disguise. 
77 



DAYBREAK 

Men who war are wicked fools, 
Dancing when perdition pipes, 

Sneering Satan's idiot tools, 

Liveried in his braid and stripes. 

Hark! the sonorous cannon's breath, 

Drumming for the dance of death. 

Cheers for murder! On they go — 
Madmen, all with frantic cries — 

Dancing in a frenzied row, 

Lust of slaughter in their eyes, 

All the fiends of hell at large 

In a tearing bayonet charge. 

See the dancers splashed with blood ! 

Look upon its crimson stains, 
Pouring in an endless flood ! 

Mangled bodies, scattered brains, 
Shattered bones and entrails fresh, 
Ripped from living, quivering flesh. 

Wounded men, a ghastly host. 
Moan and die, or gasp and bleed, 

While the fool who's killed the most 
Thinks he's done a noble deed. 

Deems his murders cause for pride — 

Wretched, guilty homicide. 

Raise the bright triumphal arch ; 

Crown him with a wreath of bays ; 
Let him lead the victor's march 

Through the cheering, crowded ways ; 
Praise and honors on him rain. 
Shout your loudest : "Hail to Cain !" 
78 



DAYBREAK 

But for sadness I could laugh, 
Seeing free men duped like this ; 

Wretched victims, caught with chaff, 
Sent to meet death's charnel kiss, 

Taught that blood and crime are glory. 

Fooled by such a devil's story. 

Trained to murder, cool and vile — 
Foulest crime beneath the sun — 

Shipped in transports, marched in file. 
Told they're heroes every one; 

Thus they outrage God and die. 

Still believing in the lie. 

Know you why the lie is told? 

Why is murder called sublime ? 
Sure 'tis for the love of gold — 

Gold's a cause for every crime — 
Soldiers, when they fight and bleed, 
Satisfy the trader's greed. 

Mammon, wicked, cunning, wise. 
Sits at home and pulls the strings. 

View him with adoring eyes — 

Powers and potentates and kings — 

Speak of him with bated breath. 

Sending hosts of fools to death. 

People, 'tis the dawn. Awake ! 

Sound the reveille sublime ! 
Slay no more for Mammon's sake ! 

Be not flattered into crime — 
Branded with the stamp of Cain, 
That the rich may riches gain. 
79 



HYMN OF THE LORD'S PRAYER 

O FATHER of us all in heaven, 
Most holy be Thy name. 
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, 
In earth and heaven the same. 

Give us this day our daily bread. 

Forgive our sins this day, 
As we forgive each other's sins, 

Father in heaven we pray. 

And lead us not where sins assail, 

But in temptation's hour 
Save us ; for Thine the kingdom is, 

The glory and the power. 



80 



JONATHAN PAUSES TO THINK 

I'M a little less reminded of the old colonial days, 
When we fought with British troops, and won our 
freedom in the fight; 
Seems to me this Transvaal question's entering on 
another phase; 
There are lots of men who're fighting now from 
jealousy and spite. 

There are Frenchmen planning trenches in a scientific 
way; 
There are German gunners training guns on soldiers 
of the queen; 
Every army corps in Europe has its soldiers there today ; 
Now, I honor open warfare, but I call such plotting 
mean; 

For the burghers have a right to shoot and, 'gad, they 
ring the bell ; 
It reminds me of Thermopylae and what I learnt at 
school ; 
But I don't support these foreigners who're joining in as 
well. 
Is it 'cause they love the eternal right? Not much! 
I'm not a fool ! 

81 



JONATHAN PAUSES TO THINK 

It's because they hate the EngHsh, who have bhiffed 
them all for years, 
Who have parceled out the world and raised their flag 
in every land ; 
They'd have grabbed their empire long ago but for their 
prudent fears ; 
Now they seize the opportunity to strike them under- 
hand. 



The Boers are sterling patriots — and he wins undying 
fame 
Who dies to serve his country — but I change my point 
of view 
When I read of British of^cers, marked down and shot 
like game, 
Just because they're Anglo-Saxons, by a continental 
crew. 



In the temple of enlightenment each nation has its place ; 

Every people serves its purpose on the Architect's 
great plan; 
But the buttress of the building is the Anglo-Saxon race ; 

And, I say, the man who hates it is an enemy to man. 



They may plot and strike at England till they bring her 
to earth ; 
They may sink her giant navy ; they may storm her 
ocean walls; 
They may wreck the little island where the "fathers" 
had their birth, 
But the whole wide world shall cry aloud and reel 
when England falls. 

82 



A M F 

■,0 OTHER POEMS- 

Ri~RTRANr iADWELL 



